Early in the spring

Early in the spring, about a month before my grandpa's stroke, I began walking for an hour every afternoon. Some days I would walk four blocks south to see Grandma and Grandpa. At eighty-six, Grandpa was still quite a gardener, so I always watched for his earliest blooms and each new wave of spring flowers nu skin hk.

I was especially interested in flowers that year because I was planning to landscape my own yard and I was eager to get Grandpa's advice. I thought I knew pretty much what I wanted — a yard full of bushes and plants that would bloom from May till November.

It was right after the first rush of purple violets in the lawns and the sudden blaze of forsythia that spring that Grandpa had a stroke. It left him without speech and with no movement on his left side. The whole family rallied to Grandpa. We all spent many hours by his side. Some days his eyes were eloquent — laughing at our reported mishaps, listening alertly, revealing painful awareness of his inability to care for himself. There were days, too, when he slept most of the time, overcome with the weight of his approaching death.

As the months passed, I watched the growing earth with Grandpa's eyes. Each time I was with him, I gave him a garden report. He listened, gripping my hand with the sure strength and calm he had always had. But he could not answer my questions. The new flowers would blaze, peak, fade, and die before I knew their names.

Grandpa's illness held him through the spring and on, week by week, through summer. I began spending hours at the local nursery, studying and choosing seeds and plants. It gave me special joy to buy plants I had seen in Grandpa's garden and give them humble starts in my own garden. I discovered Sweet William, which I had admired for years in Grandpa's garden without knowing its name. And I planted it in his honor.

As I waited and watched in the garden and by Grandpa's side, some quiet truths emerged. I realized that Grandpa loved flowers that were always bloom; he kept a full bed of roses in his garden. But I noticed that Grandpa left plenty of room for the brief highlights. Not every nook of his garden was constantly in bloom. There was always a treasured surprise tucked somewhere.

I came to see, too, that Grandpa's garden mirrored his life. He was a hard worker who understood the law of the harvest. But along with his hard work, Grandpa knew how to enjoy each season, each change. We often teased him about his life history. He had written two paragraphs summarizing fifty years of work, and a full nine pages about every trip and vacation he'd ever taken.In July, Grandpa worsened. One hot afternoon arrived when no one else was at his bedside. He was glad to have me there, and reached out his hand to pull me close nu skin hk.

I told Grandpa what I had learned — that few flowers last from April to November. Some of the most beautiful bloom for only a month at most. To really enjoy a garden, you have to plant corners and drifts and rows of flowers that will bloom and grace the garden, each in its own season.

His eyes listened to every word. Then, another discovery: "If I want a garden like yours, Grandpa, I'm going to have to work." His grin laughed at me, and his eyes teased me.

"Grandpa, in your life right now the chrysanthemums are in bloom. Chrysanthemums and roses." Tears clouded both our eyes. Neither of us feared this last flower of fall, but the wait for spring seems longest in November. We knew how much we would miss each other.

Sitting there, I suddenly felt that the best gift I could give Grandpa would be to give voice to the testimony inside both of us. He had never spoken of his testimony to me, but it was such a part of his life that I had never questioned if Grandpa knew. I knew he knew гонконгские достопримечательности фото
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Catching you back


I know, I Thinking again you! Write this text, perhaps to wait, perhaps the memory of something, or maybe just casually write about it! Poem take advantage of Love, live for today, others say youth should be so, but in reality we found did not imagine so chic Royal Romance.

Gradually, found that he was not in words to express your mood. Perhaps the time is forgotten, ever wanted hard in pursuit, but it is inadvertently suddenly become dejected.

Passage, a song, but it is the mind gets dusty memories, memories are bursts every heartache, that you can give up those memories forever Buried heart, no longer think, at the moment only wanted to understand the original naive.

Difficult to sleep every night habitually recalled once bit by bit, sometimes moving, sometimes heartbreaking, there Shique panic, fear. Afraid of waiting, the fear of losing.

Often pondering heart in hand, pondering the dream of happiness. A not long nor short wait, I said I will wait for you, but fear of torture to wait Royal Romance.

Every waking up, but found that happiness exists only in a dream. That day, I watched you disappear in my sight, that kind of pain, who can understand?

You always like to see enough information sent thousands of times, like pondering every word you said before, the recollection of your every expression. Only to find that he was alive in the memories Royal Romance
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Was ideal, but now they are afraid to face. At the moment is somewhat at a loss, and even doubt yourself. Sometimes calm down and think, they would understand such a rush to make you and I feel uneasy, unwilling to face.

Hate love him, but can not give what you want, that relationship can only make temporary burial, if later destined, upon graduation, I was chasing you back.

He was right

He showed up to my hotel room door in a gold F150, and yellow roses that I am sure he got at the Piggly Wiggly.

His dirty eyes smiled when he asked, “is you ready or not?” The hand not holding the roses, was in his pocket.

I smile and wink, “are you?”

“Yes, ma’am” he says.

I didn’t think he really was, none of them ever are. He apologizes about not having an air conditioner and that the radio only played one AM station. He was listening to the news on it, but he could turn it off if I’d like. I just shrugged.

“Now, ain’t that some shit.” He pointed to the radio. “you heard about that there story?”

“No. Not really.” I lied.

“Some dude’s going around killing other dudes.” he said.

“oh really? some dude.” I admire my own tits as I speak.

“Yea.” he said. “Prolly, some stupid faggot killing other pussier faggots.” he turned the radio off. “I’ll tell you what, ain’t no faggot ever going to kill me.”

I smile, and place my hand on his knee. He was right, no faggot would kill him.

“Why do you suppose somebody would want to do that anyway? Kill faggots and all.”

I smile and look at that place where the earth meets the sky. It was painted pink. “Every Nero needs a scapegoat.” I smiled.

in the right direction

I wish I could say that the last three months have been a breeze. I wish I could say that. The truth is that they’ve sucked. It hasn’t been all bad, of course, but I don’t think you could pay me to relive them. I don’t mean that to sound like a complete Debbie-downer moment…the flip side of that coin is that I’m really, truly excited about what the next chapter holds! Aside from the Algebra class, all of my classes for the fall term are things directly relating to what I want to do! Biology, nutrition and a double dose of psychology!

And even the Algebra class is a little exciting; I’m starting to feel like I’m grasping the concepts in the current math class, which leaves me optimistic for the next. Also? I love autumn. I have a night in a North Florida hotel room already booked for September and I’m hoping to get to see the leaves in all their colorful glory. I love those rare days where it isn’t humid here and we get a wonderful breeze whipping through our hair. I love seeing all the kids get dressed up for Halloween. I love Thanksgiving. I love pumpkins and mums. (Mums! Sean! Mums! LOL Wedding flowers!!

That would be AWESOME!) I wait until well into December to put Christmas decorations up because I want to milk every minute possible out of the autumn ones. I love the way the sun hits the earth at that time of year; the golden sunlight that only happens then. I love that it’s dark before 8pm. I love all of it!

And I can’t think of a better way to end 21 days of grateful blogging. Truth: the last three weeks haven’t been perfect, but I think it’s helped. I definitely seem to be more resilient when something does come up that upsets me or otherwise throws me for a loop. We can’t expect to be happy 24/7, but being able to pick up the pieces within a few hours rather than days is definitely a step in the right direction.

medical school

I begin medical school at Mount Sinai in the fall, which is why this little narrative—all about Wall Street and why it is not evil—must be as brief as it is. I feel qualified to write it because I spent the past year working as an analyst at a very interesting wealth management firm in New York City called Gilder Gagnon Howe.

I also feel—very strongly, despite the other tasks looming before me—that this is a project worth undertaking, completing, and sending out into the world, because the way we vilify Wall Street in this country is totally unnecessary, and hurts us as a society in all sorts of ways. At the very least, we should learn to refrain from asking people who work on Wall Street whether they sleep well at night, despite the immorality of their profession.

For my argument itself, my strategy will be divided in two; I’ll be taking something of a pincer approach. On the one hand, I’ll describe the responsibilities, and daily lives, of my co-workers in such detail that it will be blazingly clear that there’s really no room left over for evil. I’ll attempt to show that—in its purest form, at least—working on Wall Street is so demanding that there is barely time to take your spouse out to dinner in Williamsburg, much less mastermind a scheme to drain the unsuspecting public of their hard-earned dollars.

On the other hand, I’ll make my own awkward and amateurish attempt at justifying the actual usefulness, to this great country and all of its people, of the work that Wall Street does. I’m no economist, no academic, no expert of any kind—but if I do have one talent, it’s explaining complicated things in an accessible, if sometimes slightly reductive, way. I believe that I’ve identified at least a few reasons why Wall Street is actually very useful to us Americans, and I think I can explain what those are. Whether I’m overlooking other essential functions, or misrepresenting the relative importance of the functions I do discuss, is a question for the academics to dispute.